


Just Johnlock things

by DownpourOfFeels



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Aged-Up Character(s), Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Cheesy, Classical Music, Dancing, Danzon.no2, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Drug Use, Ficlet Collection, First Time, Fluff, Happy Ending, Happy ballroom dancing, Holding Hands, Johnlock Fluff, Johnlock Smut, Love, M/M, Nervous John, Nervous Sherlock, Nostalgic photos, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Prompt Fic, Rosie - Freeform, SO MUCH SQUISHY FLUFF, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Suicidal Thoughts, The Sign of Three Spoilers, Top John, Torture, Violence, Virgin Sherlock, gay dancing, old photographs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-28 06:05:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6317677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DownpourOfFeels/pseuds/DownpourOfFeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of my Johnlock drabbles/ficlets that are usually written as prompts. Probably short, unrelated stories full of Johnlock fluff/smut/angst. To be honest I'm not entirely sure yet. I'm only going to be adding to this occasionally, so, we'll see what turns up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The first time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully my writing has improved over time so if you want better, longer pieces of work skip these first few chapters as I wrote them a while ago now.

The first time they do it, Sherlock promises John that it’s fine.

He reassures him through endless kisses and filthy whispers, telling him that he _needs_ it, that he’s wanted it for longer than he can possibly remember.

But really he’s nervous.

John takes his hand and pulls him over to the bed, softly at first, gentle as always, reaching out to grab the steady handles of Sherlock’s hips until the younger man breaks their fragile kisses and shifts so that he’s straddling John’s lap.

They kiss softly for a moment, but then, as Sherlock pulls teasingly on John’s lower lip, time starts to move rather quickly.

Sherlock’s knees get pressed into the bed. His arms move to wrap around John’s waist. And of course, the army doctor has never been one to waste time. Efficient as ever, he pulls Sherlock in for another kiss. Deep and filthy this time, all tounges and teeth and sharp edges.

Desperate.

Sherlock moans. He whimpers. But the sounds get swallowed by John’s mouth. He’s insistent, moving against Sherlock now, grinding his thighs up against Sherlock’s clothed body, rutting against him, desperately trying to find some sort of friction.

Sherlock’s feels the heat growing between them. It’s never radiated quite like this. The air has never been so thick with anticipation. His groans get louder. He breaks the kiss and gasps for air. Grinning, momentarily, before pushing John backwards so that he falls against the sheets. Sherlock falls with him, pressing down on to him. Smug that he’s managed to get on top.

John laughs, a deep-rooted chuckle before he captures Sherlock's lips again. Deeply. Passionately. And then, as Sherlock whispers  _please John,_ the first groan slips from his lips. He rolls them over, pushing Sherlock down hard against the bed sheets, tangling his fingers in those gloriously soft black curls.

Although Sherlock’s expecting him to pull, he doesn’t, he just tugs very gently, moving down and nipping at Sherlock’s ear. Unexpectedly breaking the sudden spur of passion.

“We don’t have to do this, if you don’t want to Sherlock. I understand if you’ve changed your mind.”

Sherlock stills beneath him. Because of _course_ he still wants to, but somehow, now that they are actually here, with John on top of him and the lube only an arms reach away…the prospect seems quite daunting.

“I haven’t.” He stammers.

“Sherlock…”

John moves away from his ear and pulls back, cupping Sherlock’s cheek before gazing into his nervous dark eyes.

“I’m only going to do this if you’re a hundred percent sure it’s what you want, ok? And you can stop me at any time if it’s too much.”

And Sherlock melts then, because how can he have this? This wonderful man, someone so caring and loving and perfect in every possible way. It’s impossible to comprehend. How on earth did he get so lucky?

His voice still shakes but what he says is certain. There’s no mistaking it.

“I’m sure John. I want you. More than anything.”

And it’s true, in that moment, Sherlock had never been so certain.

In the end, it takes a lot of coaxing, a lot of waiting and encouragements and questions to check that everything’s okay. It takes cooperation, slow kisses and soft moans, and then, eventually, the pleasure comes.

Hitting the right spot feels like an explosion. It comes so thick and heavy that Sherlock doesn’t feel like he can actually breathe it all in. In fact, he can’t really breathe at all. Suddenly all too much. The way their foreheads are pressed together, the way John's nails are digging into his hips and his long groans are forming Sherlock's name. Sherlock can't hold on much longer.

"John... please...oh fuck, I can't..." 

John moans louder. He gets faster. He tells Sherlock it's okay, that _yes_ he can go now, that he-

And Sherlock can't control himself, everything turns to slow motion, the world slips sideways and-

He gasps. He whimpers. He shakes and then... he crashes.

It’s like a thunderstorm. He can’t keep up. He’s falling and flying and spinning all at once. The world blurs and he’s yelling John’s name as pure adrenaline floods his veins.

John follows shortly after, his composed movements and gentle encouragements deteriorating until he falls into a wreck of loud groans and sharp breaths. It’s only moments before he crashes too, collapsing into the man he loves.

“Ok?” He breathes as the world comes back into focus.

Sherlock squeezes his hand.

“Perfect.”


	2. Shouldn't we hold hands?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John hold hands for the first time. Much fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as a 'crappy fanfiction post' on Instagram for the prompt 'Sherlock getting nervous about holding John's hand.'  
> It was really late when I wrote this. I personally think it's a bit not good but people seemed to enjoy it then so I thought I'd try and touch it up a little and put it on here so it's not wasted. Enjoy!

The first time it happened, was about a week since they'd officially been together.

They were strolling through the west side of London, just past Wembley. Walking in step. Basking in the spring sunshine while still cherishing the cool breeze that hit their cheeks. London looked pretty on days like this. The tall grey buildings capturing the gentle wash of golden sunshine instead of dulling it. The daffodils peeking out from under the soil in their hanging baskets. Despite the traffic, everything seemed so peaceful. Like there was nothing wrong with the world at all. 

Of course, it was not only the glow of springtime London that was fuelling John's good mood. No, it was the unmistakable pleasure of post-case glory. 

They'd wrapped up the mystery this morning. After a  _long_ two weeks of dashing about and night's that involved very little sleep. It was a serial killer this time, Sherlock's favourite, but even this case had pushed his limits, and it was a relief to know that things were finally going to return to some kind of normality, well, at least for the afternoon. 

"What about that one there?" Sherlock asked, pointing in the direction of a decent looking restaurant at the top of the street.  

"Umm..." John squinted, shading his eyes from the sun with his palm. "No. Looks good, but Mike told me the food isn't. Let's keep going, apparently there's some nice ones around this street corner here." 

"Ok." Sherlock smiled, turning back and starting to walk, his usual restlessness all but settled by the reassurance that hung in John's smile. "You know best." 

They continued to make their way along the street, weaving through the bustling commuters and talented buskers as if they were the only two there. With the gentle hum of the city filling his ears and the world's only consulting detective walking by his side, John found he couldn't wipe the smile from his face. It was all kind of...perfect.

Except...

He brushed it off as nothing at first, but then Sherlock did it again. And again. John had to check a couple of times to be sure he wasn't imagining it. As they were walking, just for a split second, so quick that anyone _but_ John would miss it, Sherlock kept looking at him. Definitely. 

Not just looking at him and catching a smile every so often. No, that was normal. But glancing nervously in his direction before flicking his eyes away and staring off into the distance warily. Then biting his lip and faking a smile, acting like nothing was wrong at all.

But something was. John knew Sherlock better than he knew himself. 

"Hey!" John reached out and pulled softly on Sherlock's shoulder, slowing them both to a standstill. "Are you...alright?" He rubbed Sherlock's arm lightly before dropping his hand. 

"Ofcourse," Sherlock replied carefully, looking off into the distance and pretending to be interested in some pigeons that were milling across the pavement. "Never better." He finished, meeting John's eyes again before dropping them to the ground.

"Are you sure?" John questioned, trying to look into the taller man's eyes and read his expression like they were the only ones on the street. "You seem a bit...tense."

"No no, I'mfine," Sherlock mumbled. "It's just..."

"Go on." John prompted gently.  

"Ermm..." Sherlock looked away awkwardly, avoiding John's eyes and doing the face he always did when he was trying to act in control but actually wasn't.  

"You can tellme, Sherlock, it's fine." John continued, stepping back ever so slightly to give the other man some space. 

"Well, it's just..." Sherlock looked a bit like hewas about to die. "Shouldn't we...err...you know," He looked down at John's hand which was resting freely at his side. 

"Yes...?"

Sherlock sighed in defeat. "Shouldn't we hold hands?" Hesaid at last, finally looking into John's eyes properly. 

"Oh." John gasped, slightly takenback to say the least. "Well...I suppose-"

"Only if you want to!" Sherlock spluttered. "I just saw a couple back there and, I thought maybe you expected it... now that we're officially...oh god actually never mind." He finished, the slightest pink starting to form on his cheeks.

"Oh, Sherlock." John whispered quietly, his insides melting at the other man's panicked expression. "Of course I want to. I just didn't think of it that's all, come here." He moved forward quickly and took Sherlock's trembling hand in his own, slowly interlocking their fingers and starting to rub small reassuring circles into Sherlock's palm with his thumb.

Sherlock stared down at their hands with a dazed expression. He blinked quickly, and for asecond John worried if perhaps he'd taken things a little too fast. 

"Is this alright?" He asked.

Sherlock blinked oncemore, before the corner of his lips turned up in a bright smile. "Yes." He nodded. "Yes it's...fine." 


	3. I thought he was with you!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John loose Hamish in B&Q (a DIY store).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short fic written as a prompt for a 'crappy fanfiction post' on Instagram. This one is even worse than the last one to be honest. But because I haven't written in such a long time it's been nice to get back into it by doing these. Anyway, I really don't think much of this at all, but I hope you enjoy it anyhow.

"Sherlock!" John called as he spotted the trails of a very familiar long black coat go sweeping around the corner of the shop aisle and promptly out of view. "Sherlock wait!"

The coat stopped. Sherlock backed up and turned the corner, walking to greet John with a rather pleasant smile on his face. "I found the paint that you wanted." He grinned, gesturing to the colourful tins stacked up in the metal shopping basket he was holding. “Avocado green, wasn’t it?”

"Oh," John smiled gently. "Yeah, it was that's great...but um…” He glanced around one last time to make sure he wasn’t wrong, a very nervous feeling starting to clutch at his chest. “Aren’t you missing something?”

“What?” Sherlock asked, genuinely puzzled. “I’m sure I got the right type of-”

“No not the paint Sherlock!” John burst out, unable to contain himself. “Where’s Hamish?”  

The smile on the taller man's face hastily dropped. His lips suddenly pursed together in a very,  _very_ straight line. "I thought he was with you!" He spluttered.

"No," John replied in slow, dark, tone. "It was your turn to look after him, remember?"

"Err..." A look of panic settled quite quickly across Sherlock's face. "Was it now?"

"Yes," John said thickly, his face beginning to cloud over like thunder. "You've lost him again haven't you?"

Sherlock hesitated quickly, looking around once more as if Hamish was about to magically appear. "Perhaps." He whispered.

“Oh god!” John cried, raising his arms in frustration. “Again Sherlock, I can’t believe you-”

At that very moment, an announcement came over on the shop loudspeaker.

"Could a mister John Watson come to reception please. That's John Watson to reception."

"See!” Sherlock gasped, his face flooding with relief. “They must have found him." He cleared his throat and tried to act like he was never panicked at all. "He's smart boy John, I knew he'd be fine."

John just gave him a look that most men would probably be frightened of. “He’s eight years old Sherlock! Eight-year-olds shouldn’t be running around B&Q on their own. There's drills and stuff-”

“But he’s-”

John raised his eyebrows, effectively cutting Sherlock off. It fell silent for a small moment, and reluctantly he let the relief wash the anger from his body. 

“Sorry,” Sherlock whispered, trying for a smile.

John exhaled a large amount of air through his nose. “No, no it’s fine.” He managed to chuckle. “Sounds like he’s alright anyway.”

Sherlock suddenly looked up in confusion. “Wait hang on! How come he asked for you, not me?”

John laughed then, unable to prevent the smile from breaking out onto his lips. “That’s only because he knows you have the rest of the world on mute half the time. Come on then you idiot,” He reached out and tugged at Sherlock’s hand, beginning to lead them in the direction of the reception desk. “Let’s go and get him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John being angry was meant to be funny but I'm not sure it really came out like that in the end, whoops, but it is all meant to be a happy ending. Thanks for reading.


	4. Why not?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John take a trip to Paris and end up in a restaurant having a little bit of a chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the majority of this while I was, myself, sat outside having a drink in a French restaurant (although sadly not in Paris). The dialogue just kinda appeared in my head and I decided to keep rolling with it. In my mind, this is set sometime after the Blind Banker and there'd have to be some kind of romantic build-up that's already taken place for it to work, but I guess it doesn't really matter. Like all of these though, I don't think it's very good...there are so, so many flaws but I thought perhaps you might like it anyway. Enjoy! :)

****Sherlock waved his arm and caught the waiter's attention. "Excusez moi, pourrions-nous avoir l’addition s’il vous plaît?”  
  
"Of course sir," The waiter replied smoothly in a rich French accent. "I'll bring it right over."   
  
"What?" John looked across the table and raised his eyebrows in the consulting detective’s direction. "I didn't know you spoke French?"   
  
"Of course."   
  
"But-"   
  
"I picked it up on the plane while you were asleep. Your snoring interrupted me a few times actually..."  
  
"Oi! No it didn’t! And anyway, you can't have done - that flight was only two hours."   
  
Sherlock looked smug. "So?"   
  
"So what, you know the entire bloody French language now do you?" John failed entirely to hide the amazement in his voice.   
  
"Most of it, yes."   
  
"Really?  _Really_? That’s incredible. You're just-" John decided to cut himself off before he said something embarrassing. The table fell silent, and he smiled gently to himself before taking another sip of his beer. This, right now, was  _definitely_  his idea of pleasant.  
  
They were in Paris, more specifically, Montmartre square, perched outside at a corner table in a quaint cafe; one with outdoor seats and pretty red umbrellas.  
  
They were here of course, because of a case. Mycroft had contacted Sherlock earlier this morning, and they'd flown out from London an hour later, touching down in Paris at about four French time. They'd booked in at the hotel, a rather exquisite pale-stoned building which happened to have an absolutely gorgeous view of the Eiffel tower - probably at older Holme’s expense, and then Sherlock had been rushing them out of the door before John even had time to hang up his coat.   
  
The man himself was buzzing, radiating with nervous activity as he dragged them back onto the French streets and in the direction of the case. They were headed to the south side of the river, but, as they marched straight past the famous monuments and through the charming squares, John had pulled at Sherlock's shoulder and insisted that they stop for at a café for a drink.  
  
So that’s where they were, five minutes in, Sherlock having downed his glass of water in a matter of seconds, and John still sipping at the froth of his beer.

Sherlock was twitching anxiously. He started to drum on the table with his fingers. 

"Can't you drink that a bit quicker?"   
  
John ignored him and stared out across the street, watching as various different types people wandered past, either businessmen or tourists, rushing or milling about, with their suitcases or cameras in tow.   
  
"The case is waiting."   
  
John sighed and closed his eyes momentarily. He'd always liked France, with its long lunches, pretty streets and relaxed culture. There was just something about it. Although the city was bustling all around him right now, and the unrelenting sun was beating down hard onto his forehead (Sherlock had stolen the shady side of the table), he felt calm, at home.   
  
"John."   
  
John opened his eyes and pretended to take interest in a nearby pigeon. Even they were prettier here, they were-  
  
"You had time to have a rest and a beer on the plane.”  
  
The army doctor's patience finally snapped.   
  
"Oh for Christ’s sakes Sherlock! You've already solved the case and they're not expecting us there until seven. Can't we just have a little break?"  
  
Sherlock looked momentarily startled. "I've only solved it in my head John, I want to make sure I'm right before I present the facts. And besides, this is no fun if you're just going to ignore me."   
  
John pulled on one of his tight smiles and leant back in his chair, studying Sherlock's rather sulky expression. He couldn't help but let out a small laugh, it was actually quite funny, and a little heart-warming, how John's lack of attention seemed to affect the other man so much.  
  
"Alright, alright." He chuckled. "I'm sorry for ignoring you. Let me just finish this beer eh? Why don't we talk about something else?"   
  
"What else?" Sherlock demanded.  
  
"Well, I dunno... France is pretty."   
  
Sherlock scowled and rolled his eyes. "Really John? Small talk? We go all the way to a different country and you want to make pointless comments." He scanned the hustle of people rushing past, his eyes flickering over hundreds and hundreds of small details. Trimmed nails, worn-out handbags, shiny new shoes. "Why don't we play deductions instead?"  
  
"No," John huffed. "You just want to show off." 

Sherlock's face broke out into a grin. "Maybe."   
  
"Ok, ok, fine," John retreated, "No deductions. Let's talk about the case."   
  
"What do you wanna know?" Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.   
  
"Well, isn't it a bit odd that Mycroft sent us all the way down here when he's already figured out who did it?"   
  
Sherlock tilted his head to one side. "Hmm, no. Mycroft's always had a fear of...legwork, as he so wonderfully puts it.”

I know…but," John sighed heavily, "There's just something odd about all this. I mean, that hotel room he booked is  _expensive_. That view!"    
  
"Yes,” Sherlock murmured slowly. “It is a tad dramatic..."  He dropped his eyes to his suddenly fidgeting hands. "He's definitely up to something."   
  
A suspicious silence strung itself between them.   
  
“Huh,” John turned away and looked down at the pavement, "He better not be trying to set us up..." He muttered the words silently under his breath.

“What?” Sherlock looked up.

“Oh,” John suddenly felt a blush start to rise on his cheeks. “Nothing. I-"

“No you said something…” Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. “You think… you think Mycroft is trying to set us up!?”

“Umm,” John tried to cover his tracks with a small laugh. “No, err, I mean, well, what with it being Paris and all."

“What about Paris?” Sherlock’s expression was one of genuine confusion. He leant forward a little on the table.

“Well,” John was blushing properly now, and he had to focus _hard_ to stop his words from coming out in a stutter. “You…” He coughed, “You know what they say about Paris…”

“Do I?”

“That it's romantic… that it's....where people go to-” He mashed his head into his palm.

“...be set up…?” Sherlock finished quietly.

“Yes.” John breathed. “I guess so, but it doesn't matter I was-”

Sherlock gazed at him intently for a moment, his blue-green eyes glinting sharply in the sun.

“...Umm.”

A busy square in Paris had never felt so silent. It was like the trees had stopped rustling, the people stopped talking. All John could hear was his heartbeat drumming frantically in his ears. 

Sherlock suddenly grabbed his empty glass from the table and raised it. A little drop of moisture ran down the outside and onto his hand but he didn't seem to notice. He was still staring at John, looking at him in way that he’d  _never_  done before.

John’s throat went dry.

“Why not?” Sherlock asked, his glass still held in the air.

“Why not... what?” John whispered, afraid to breathe.

“Why don't we humour Mycroft, just this once?”

John felt a small wave of dizziness pass over him. It was like the earth was shifting beneath his feet. Were they really talking about this? After all this time, was Sherlock really asking-

“Sure,” John raised his glass in return, his fingers were trembling but somehow he managed to keep his voice steady. “To...”

“To us.” Sherlock smiled.

John gulped. He looked into Sherlock's eyes, bright and expecting. He wasn’t entirely sure _what_ he was about to agree to, but one thing, at least, was certain.

He wanted Sherlock to keep looking at him like that, like he was _right now_ , until his heart stopped beating.

“To us.” He repeated.

Their glasses clinked together, sparkling in the afternoon sun.

 

 


	5. Right then, Into Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Mary's wedding from Sherlock's point of view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! This randomly came to me when I was lying in bed one morning. It's not something I'd usually write but there we go. I hope you like it.

 

Sherlock wants the wedding day to be perfect. Because it _has_ to be.  
  
For John.   
  
If Mary is what John wants, then, of course, Sherlock doesn’t dare argue with that. And so he decides, after weeks of sleepless nights, that he _has_ to make it John's perfect day, never mind the fact that he can't share it with him in the way that he  _really_  wants to.   
  
So, he spends hour after hour planning. Scouting locations, reading reviews. He does everything, from looking for the perfect curve in the cutlery to screening the guests and ensuring they’ve all got good intentions. He even learns about proper wedding conventions and traditions, what people should say and how they should dress. He makes sure he becomes and expert, and then, when that's finished he drops all cases and focuses the entirety of his energy on his best man speech. Buying books, calling for help from Lestrade, making prompt cards for it, the lot.   
  
Because every detail is important. He needs everything to be just how it should be.   
  
Which, means he can't let… _feelings_  get in the way.   
  
Nevertheless, however much he tries, the weeks leading up to the big day still end up being a complete emotional rollercoaster. He manages to hide it, like he always has, from everyone and everything in sight. But… 

It's probably the worst he's ever been.   
  
It's irritating because it interrupts the work. He'll be just in flat, researching at his desk when he starts to…feel it. A heavy emptiness, bitterness, clinging to his chest when he accidentally catches sight of John's deserted chair. His fingers twitch, and then start to tremble, and soon his throat feels like it’s closing up and he finds himself struggling to breathe.   
  
It happens once, twice...and eventually Sherlock decides to move John's chair to the storage cupboard. Out of sight and out of mind, isn't that the saying?

If so it doesn't work.   
  
He starts to put off eating, sleeping. Spends more and more time composing on the violin. He doesn’t leave the flat, and nearly always ignores his phone when it rings. Just existing starts to become unbearable and he  _itches_  for drugs, but he can't, not yet. He’s got one last job to do.   
  
None of this matters though, because no one can see him and no one  _knows_  what's happening, and he intends to keep it that way. He only has to hold it together for that little bit longer, throughout the big day, and then that’s it.  
  
But as it seems to draw closer and closer, creeping in on him like a silent thunderstorm, an unyielding darkness, he's not sure he's going to be able to.   
  
When the morning finally comes, with its sunshine and bustle of excited people, he holds them off for an hour longer and stands by the window alone. He tightens his shirt collar and looks out onto the placid London street below.

He'll miss it, and all the ridiculous adventures they had. But he knows it's right to say goodbye. Things would never be the same without John. 

He takes a deep breath and walks, past the kitchen and to his room where his suit is waiting.   
  
"Right then.” He murmurs slowly as he approaches. “Into battle."

It feels like the hardest thing he's ever done. 

The morning of the wedding is an agonising struggle, but somehow he manages to pull through. Every minute that goes by is another devastating stab in the chest, but overall the ceremony  _does_  go to plan. 

He meets John outside Baker Street and they travel via a fancy black cab to the church. He smiles, makes a few jokey comments. But really it  _hurts_ to see how good they look together in their matching black suits. John looks incredible, all clean shaven and bright-eyed. He smiles softly and pats Sherlock on the shoulder as they wave the taxi driver goodbye, and that  _hurts_ too. 

The church is a pretty, quaint building on the outskirts of London, just like Sherlock imagined it to be. After a few photos and minutes of meaningless chatter they step inside and Sherlock swallows.

This is it. No turning back. 

His fingers are trembling. 

His breath is becoming hard to keep steady.

Mrs Hudson finds his hand in the crowd and squeezes it. He's always wondered if perhaps she understands.

He locates his seat and waits patiently for the service to begin. After a moment, the door bangs, and everyone turns as Mary enters. Her white dress is dazzling and she grins brightly as she walks up the aisle. Sherlock's eyes flicker to John. 

He's grinning too. Looking at her in a way that Sherlock remembers well. It's a look that used to only ever be reserved for _him_.  

Suddenly it's all too much. 

He feels his eyes start to prick with tears. But he  _can't_ , he can't cry yet because then his eyes would go all red and puffy and everyone would see, and worst of all, John would notice and probably figure everything out.

That  _cannot_  happen. 

He drops his gaze and takes another deep breath. Mrs Hudson places her hand on his thigh and whispers, "Steady dear, it's nearly over." 

But it isn’t. It’s only just begun. The service seems to last years, everything changes to slow motion, and when the priest asks if anyone objects, Sherlock can't help but clench his fists. When he asks Mary the question, "Do you take John Watson to be your lawfully wedded husband?" Sherlock can't help but whisper "I do." Silently under his breath just so that he can have a chance to say it, once in his life. 

And when they step outside, and Sherlock is asked politely by the photographer to step out of the photo, because,  _just the married couple can be in this one_ , Sherlock turns away and shields his eyes with the excuse of a cough. 

He thought he could handle this. He thought, perhaps, that he could let John Watson go. 

But as the tears come, silently slipping down his cheeks, he realises that he _can't,_ and he  _never_ will. 

The worst part is that he's still got hours of the wedding left to go - the speech and the reception - hours left of pretending that he's ok when really he knows that the only person he's ever loved is being torn away from him. Really, it leaves him with nothing left to live for.

He takes another heavy breath and wipes his eyes before turning back to the crowd. He can’t give up, not yet. He's just got to get through this day. He's _got_ to do this for John.

John is what's most important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Sherlock is planning is overdose on drugs the moment he gets home.*
> 
> Well, I didn't say that all of these were going to be happy now did I? 
> 
> But thanks so much for reading. This story was inspired by this image.  
>  
> 
> And if you want to be really depressed, then listen to this song :https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qn0qoSvsn7Q  
> Which is So Far by Ólafur Arnalds, as it was what I was listening to when I wrote this, and to me speaks exactly what Sherlock is thinking through music.


	6. I love you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally confesses how he feels - even if it's not in the most conventional manner.  
> AU where Sherlock writes John a note to give to him just after the wedding. Lots of feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So I know it's been a while I'm sorry. I'm so incredibly busy studying journalism at the moment that I hardly get any time to write anything that isn't articles! But, I was feeling rather down this evening and this just sort came out. It's not very long and as always it's not very good but...anyway. I hope you like it. Sorry in advance for the feels. You might also want to read the notes at the end too...  
> I promise the next chapter will be something happy and not wedding related. Enjoy!

_I loved you so much._

_More than anything._

_More than anyone._

_I wish I’d told you that now - while I could._

_But I didn’t._

_And now it’s too late._

_I’m sorry._

_SH_

  
Sherlock stares blankly at the paper for a moment before growling bitterly and crumpling it up in his hands. _Stupid._ He thinks to himself. _Awful and generic and cheesy._ Something only a complete fool would say. The words fail to scratch even the surface of his feelings. They lack the gravity he needs to explain everything - the details he wants to share. _Useless_. He tears another bit of paper out of his notebook and fumbles for the pen.

 

_John,_

_Please, forgive me._

_I have been - at the best of times - a truly awful friend._

_I know I made myself impossible to live with, and sometimes, impossible to understand._

_I hope you realise this is only because I do not understand myself._

_I know when you read this it will be too late._

_But as ever, I have decided that barging in and telling you this at the wrong moment (as I always seem to do) would be better than not telling you at all._

_I think I love you, or in fact, I know I do._

_More than anything._

_More than anyone._

_I wish I’d told you that now - while I could._

_But I didn’t._

_And now it’s too late._

_I’m sorry._

_You have always deserved someone far better than me._

_And you found her._

_I hope you are very happy together - I really mean that._

_Thank you, John, for everything. You saved me._

_For a brief time at least._

_I owe you so much._

_To the very best of times._

_SH_

  
He stands by the desk for a long time and looks at what he’s written - the stark light from the window cutting across his still features. He’s still not sure if he likes it. It all sort of poured out at once. Besides, nothing can ever really convey _exactly_ how he feels. Everything he’s kept locked and hidden from the world for the last four years. All the waiting and the hoping, the looks and sly hints, the  _stab_ of pain in his chest every time when they weren’t recuperated. Not to mention Reichenbach. Countless suffering and unbearable waiting. It was all for him.  

All of that could never be summarised to only 22 sentences.

But, as he stands there, with nothing but the faint sound of London traffic echoing around the empty flat, the truth is that he really doesn’t have anything else to say.

He hesitates momentarily before folding the note up carefully and slipping it into his blazer pocket. It’s not perfect. But then, nothing he’s done ever has been.

It’ll have to do.

He shrugs on his coat makes his way down the stairs. There’s a cab waiting - ready to whisk him away to the all important day - but he doesn't rush. Instead, he trails his fingertips across the wallpaper and savours every single memory like a film, whispering four words over and over again until they start to feel natural on his lips.

It's nice to see what they could have felt like. What it’s like to actually say them, even if it’s just this once.

He whispers them softly once more as he closes the door.

_I love you John._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading. I would love to know what you thought.  
> I don't exactly know the ending of this would've turned out.  
> Maybe Sherlock pulled John into a quiet room at the wedding reception and gave it to him before smiling sadly and walking away.  
> Or maybe he stayed and twiddled his thumbs nervously while waiting to see John's face.  
> Perhaps John's eyes scanned the paper, his face dropping when he read the 8th line. Maybe the air suddenly felt very thin and he had to lean himself back against the cold corridor wall for support.  
> Maybe Sherlock grabbed hold of his shoulder with a lump in his throat and tears in his eyes.  
> Maybe after a tense moment John whispered "I'm sorry too Sherlock. I'm so so sorry" before pulling Sherlock tightly into his arms.  
> Maybe they stayed like that, embraced and entwined together, wrapped in a world of complications, crying into each other's shoulders and whispering the words "I love you. I love you. I love you." again and again until they didn't need to be said anymore.  
> Or, perhaps Sherlock walked away as soon as he handed John the note because he couldn't face the possibility of the scene going the other way, and he suspected it would.  
> I guess we'll never know!  
> (I'm so sorry please don't kill me I love you all)


	7. He'll die trying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock suffers for months being tortured, there's only one thing that keeps him going. Set before The Empty Hearse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I must warn you that this is very dark and violent. Please don't read if it might upset you - I don't want to do that to anyone! Enjoy!

A hard slap across the cheek. More freezing water thrown across his bare back. His hair pulled viciously to reveal the wide expanse of his neck, pale and smooth. His adam’s apple strains as he gasps for air and pulls desperately against his chains, his skin twisting and burning as he moves. The sharp metal cutting into his wrists.

“Ты, пиздюк паршивый.”

Sherlock translates the words quickly. Eyes darting.

_You worthless cunt._

“Жалкий тупой англичашка.”

The tall Russian's words strike his eardrums. So boisterous they seem to vibrate in the valves of his heart. He punches Sherlock again and this time the detective can't help but whimper as the man's knuckles connect with his jaw. Breaking the skin on his lip.

_Stupid pathetic Englishman._

Sherlock sags forward and takes small shallow breaths. Gasps desperately for air. He tries to utter the few Russian words he knows how to pronounce.

“Пожалуйста. Хватит.”

_Please. Stop._

The man laughs, a thunderous cackle that bounces off the walls, fills the small concrete cell like gas. His eyes gleam black in the half-light. His matted brown hair seeming to merge into the mess of his beard. His infernal black boots thud against the floor when he moves.

“Ты думаешь, мольбы тебе помогут?”

The other man circles behind him lazily. Sniggering at the seeping wounds that line Sherlock's bare back. He readies the whip.

_You think-_

A trail of blood drips from Sherlock’s chin. He shuts his eyes as he struggles to translate. The pain overriding his thinking, making his brain whir with distractions. 

_You think begging will help you?_

The man with the beard lurches forward and knees Sherlock in the chest, forcing the detective to whip his head backwards out of the way. His long matted black hair falls from his face.

“Отвечай мне!”

_Answer me!_

Sherlock splutters as blood from his face starts to dribble across his lips. He can almost feel his right eye swelling.

“Нет” He whispers after a moment. “но ты-”

_No. But you-_

His words are cut off as the man pulls a small object from his pocket. Sherlock just manages to see that it's a knife, small with a curved handle, the silver blade gleaming as it's brought into the light, towards his face. The other man brings the whip down hard on his back.

“Ah,”

The bearded man is moving closer, grinning. Slowly, carefully, he drops to his knees and positions the knife underneath Sherlock's chin, forcing him to tilt his head upwards. They're face to face.

"Я хочу кое-что знать,” He whispers softly. 

_I want to know something._

Sherlock remains silent, purses his lips, and after a moment the man starts to press harder, moving the knife down to Sherlock's throat, drawing a slim slit of blood to the surface.

“Зачем ты это делаешь? А? Шныряешь вокруг моей квартиры?”

Sherlock blinks and winces away from the man’s breath. It stinks of rotting flesh, makes him take a moment to figure out what he's saying.

_Why are you doing this? Hm? Sneaking around my quarters? What is it all for?_

Sherlock takes a small breath and bites down on his lip. He's here to dismantle Moriarty's network, to find the Russian leak. But he can't admit that, and it's not _really_ the answer to the question. 

 _What is it all_ for?

He wants to stop Moriarty, of course, but deep down he'd be lying if he said that's actually the reason.

“Не смей игнорировать меня!"

Really, this is all for John.

John Watson, with his soft smile and caring eyes. The army doctor who found him all those years ago and saved him. Taught him how to _feel,_ how to love.

He’s the man who got him off the drugs, who helped him eat, laugh, smile. He blogged about him, about their cases and crazy adventures. He's the man who can make him see sense, giggle hysterically at a crime scene.

Most of all, he's the only person who could make him cry _real_ tears when he said goodbye on the rooftop. He's someone Sherlock will do _anything_ for, and if that means spending years dismantling Moriarty’s network so they can live in peace, so be it.

If the suffering guarantees John’s safety, he’ll carry on like this; chained up and beaten to his knees, until his heart stops beating.

“Говори!”

The man starts pushing the knife further, shouting, his horrible hot breath steaming over Sherlock’s face, demanding that he speaks.

"Почему ты не говоришь!”

_Why don't you speak!_

Sherlock braces for impact as the man pulls back and strikes his fist across his face, the knife catching his cheek as he goes. Blood splatters on the floor.

_John._

He tries to picture John's face. The dimples in his cheeks when he laughs, the gentle touch of his hand on his shoulder. He imagines the gleam in his eyes when he finally returns. How bright his smile will be when he explains that it was all for him. And that they can be together now, _properly_ , openly because-

The man brings down the whip on his back, causing a sharp cry to escape from Sherlock's lips. He focuses harder. Imagines John's soft lips touching his, his hands sliding down around his lean waist, through the light waves of his hair...

But it's not working, the pain is _still_ there. The man is only getting angrier, harsher, more severe with his blows. The whip strikes the back of his neck. 

"Ah," Sherlock gags, instinctively crying out in English this time. "Please stop!" 

Perhaps he’ll never escape this. The chains are locked securely around his wrists. All the exits are blocked. This time he has no plan, no backup, and no one is coming to save him. Maybe this really is the end.

“Отвечай мне!” The man calls again.

_Answer me!_

But then, something flickers alight deep inside him. Something dark and dangerous. He pictures John touching his cheek, tracing his fingertips across his skin. He imagines what it will be like when they first interlock fingers, the first time they say they love each other. The images burn within him like a fire, like gunpowder, and suddenly he finds himself smiling darkly. Without thinking he flicks his head up and spits deliberately in the man’s face, his saliva landing in a string across the his cheek.

The man flinches, startled, and this time Sherlock looks up to catch his reaction. He stares him directly in the eye, his own blue eyes shining in the light.

It's true he may never get back, may never get to do all those things with John. But by god, he’ll die trying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it! know I said in the last chapter notes that this was going to be happy oops! Sorry! I'll try and make the next one fluffy smut ;) If you have any requests please pop them below. Don't hesitate to tell me what you thought!  
> (The Russian was from google translate, do correct me if it's wrong.)


	8. Motion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have been having a thing for a few weeks now, but that thing solidifies when Sherlock decides to take John ballroom dancing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This is one of the happiest things I’ve ever written, and funnily enough I’ve really enjoyed it! You can find the song that Sherlock and John dance to [here](https://open.spotify.com/track/495E0XysRBE4keaGqL3QDC)– (Danzon.no2) as it’s literally what inspired this entire story. Please listen to it as you’re reading or afterwards if you like. Enjoy! I’m so excited to see what you all think.

The light from the golden chandeliers glitters and sparkles. Waiters whisk out food on elegant silver platters, hundreds of different canapes tucked in between jars of olives and delicate pastries lined in rows. The orchestra sets itself up on stage, preparing their bows and music stands. They unclip their shiny instruments from their cases; listen carefully while plucking the strings to make sure they’re in tune.

Down the far end of the hall, the barman is rolling up his sleeves and readying his stock, preparing drinks, cocktails, magnificent concoctions of alcohols and fruits. Ushers in sleek black suits move swiftly past him, polishing every doorknob, shining every surface; wiping it twice and making sure they can see their reflection before moving on.

Everything must be clean and ready. Spotless.

Finally the red velvet curtains are unrolled from their hangers. The wide glass doors at the front of the building are opened, and the evening sun starts to stream through the tall arched windows, causing streaks of apricot light to line the floor. The ushers step back. The orchestra position their bows and the conductor raises his hand. Gradually, a gentle melody fills the room.

Slowly, carefully, tucked away in a discreet corner of London, the Rivoli Ballroom comes to life.

 

 

***

 

 

John stands in front of the mirror in his bedroom and tries hard not to frown at his reflection.

The suit he’s wearing hasn’t seen daylight for several years, but it’s kept well. The fabric is dark grey, tailored to his features. A sharp blazer jacket fits comfortably over a crisp white shirt. His sleek coal-black trousers cling to him in all the right places. His hair is slicked back from his forehead. His jaw is sharp, clean-shaven.

He turns sideways and stares himself up and down for a moment, deciding, debating. Does he look…good? Or just old fashioned?

“John?!”

Sherlock calls him from the bottom of the stairs, his fingers drumming impatiently on the bannister.

“John, are you nearly ready? The doors open at seven.”

“Coming!”

John steals one last nervous glance at himself before sweeping up his jacket from the bed and thundering down the stairs. A freshly showered, bright-eyed and impeccably dressed Sherlock stands in the hallway of Baker Street to greet him.

“Oh…” He smiles pleasantly as John approaches, a genuine smile, his pale blue eyes flicking up and down and absorbing the entirety of John’s appearance in an instant. “Well, you look…” He struggles for a moment, “good.”

“Only good?” John hides a nervous laugh.

“No. um,” Sherlock clears his throat and shuffles a tiny bit closer. “Sorry I meant nice. You look…nice.”

John smiles softly. He straightens up and smooths out the creases on his sleeves. “Thank you, Sherlock. So do you, as always. Are you ready to go then?”

Sherlock takes John’s hand and passes him his coat. He quirks an eyebrow. “I was ready ten minutes ago.”

 

 

***

 

 

The cab is already waiting for them when they step outside into the night, a pale orange dawn setting across the sky, the chilly evening air stinging John's cheeks. He takes a deep breath and tugs at the door the handle. They both side into the back of the cab.

“The Rivoli Ballroom, please. It’s in the south-east.” Sherlock leans forwards and talks to the driver, agreeing the fare and suggesting directions. John sits back into his seat and tries very hard not to stare unabashedly at his flatmate’s arse. His tongue slips over his lower lip at the sight of those slim thighs and toned back muscles Sherlock's exquisite black suit deliberately fails to hide. 

He gulps. What will it be like seeing that beautiful body swirling around him later? Alive with movement, with sensation?  _Dancing?_

Will he be able to handle it?

 

 

***

 

 

 

“Sherlock.”

The cab pulls up alongside a smart grey building with tall arched windows. The doors at the front are already open, and men in tight white shirts linger casually outside, talking and laughing, clouds of cigarette smoke shrouding their faces. Groups of women in heels and fluffy beige coats head through the door.

“You do know I can’t really dance.” John continues anxiously. “This seems so posh. It’s for proper professionals, isn’t it?”

“Nonsense.” Sherlock smiles. He pays the driver and hops out quickly, rushing around the back of the cab to hold the door open for John. “You’re excellent at dancing, John.  _I_  taught you.”

“Well…" John feels just a little bit giddy at the memory. "I suppose that’s true.”

They step out onto the road and cross the street, making their way towards the grand double entrance. Already, people are smiling at them softly, guessing they’re a couple, and no sooner have they stepped through the door when a butler rushes to greet them. He shakes Sherlock’s hand warmly and offers to take their coats, beaming.

“I didn’t know you would be here tonight, Holmes.” He pats Sherlock’s arm. “This way gentlemen.”

He stashes their belongings in the cloakroom before leading them through to a large oak-panelled hallway. Grand old paintings in golden frames line the walls. The dark wooden floor is so clean it squeaks underneath John’s feet.

The butler points ahead of them. “The ballroom is just through there.”

Sherlock curls his hand around John’s fingers to stop them twitching. “Ok, thank you. That will be all.”

They walk forwards, down the long corridor and towards a high marble archway. John can already hear the soft melody of the music creeping around the corners, the clatter of glasses, people talking and laughing. As they get closer Sherlock starts to pull ahead but John holds back, admiring every single detail. It feels a bit like he's in a dream. Is Sherlock really holding his hand right now? Has he ever been somewhere this posh? This extravagant? How much is this all going to cost-

“Wow.” His mouth slips open.

Sherlock grins. “Like it?”

The hall they have just entered may as well be a room from Buckingham Palace. The dark wooden floor stretches out to form the edges of a long rectangular ballroom, framed by a series of velvet curtains hanging across high windows. The walls themselves are painted in crème, decorated with swirls of gold and scarlet. Chandeliers hang from the ceiling. A large orchestra is positioned on stage, with more instruments than John could possibly name. He looks around. Alone, the people here are something to gawp at. Slender women in glittery dresses of all shapes and colours wander past them, arms draped around their partners. The men grin and run their hands through their hair, possessive and charming.

Everyone has someone. Sherlock slips his hand through John’s arm.

“So this is where the famous Sherlock Holmes takes his subjects for a date, is it?”

Sherlock crinkles his nose. “You’re not a subject, John. You’re...you know..." He looks distracted. "Anyway do you like it?”

“Like it?” John looks up at him in disbelief. “This is incredible, Sherlock. Truly. Have you been here before?”

“Only once.”

A waiter with rosy red lips and sharp blonde hair suddenly sweeps past them, waving a platter of food underneath their noses. “Anything for you boys?” She winks.

“Umm,” John eyes the selection longingly. It’s some of the best food he’s ever laid eyes on, but he’s not sure he would be able to eat it he’s so nervous. Sherlock senses his strained expression.

“No, we’re fine thank you.” He tugs John in the direction of the bar. “How about a drink instead?”

They wander over and wait in a queue for a moment - with John’s hand sliding nonchalantly around Sherlock’s waist - before their turn comes and the drinks are ordered. They get two large cocktails in curved glasses, the colour a rich, deep red, and make their way over to a clear spot of wall. They lean against it, sipping their drinks silently. 

A few quiet moments pass. The orchestra start to pick up the pace of their songs, upping the volume just slightly. Several couples stray onto the dance floor.

“How long have you liked dancing?” John asks, watching as a particular pair, a man and a woman, laugh and start to move around each other, their hands resting casually on each other's hips. 

Sherlock takes another long sip of his drink. “Since I could walk. Mycroft thought it was ridiculous though. As did Father.”

“I don’t think it’s ridiculous,” John says.

“No?”

“Course not." He replies." It’s just...human.”

Sherlock smiles softly and places his drink down on a dresser behind them. He turns to John and takes his hand. “John...there is something I have been…meaning to tell you…”

“Hm?”

“I actually…” He narrows his eyebrows. John notices his fingers are trembling, ever so slightly. “Well, I wanted to ask…”

But at that very moment the lights unexpectedly dim around them, and the orchestra goes quiet; soft as they start up with a new song. A classic song. One that Sherlock recognises instantly. 

"Oh, John!" His eyes widen as he pulls back sharply, breaking the moment. "This song. It's good, really good." He swipes John's drink from his hand and places it behind them before pulling them both forward. "We have to dance now." 

"Now?" 

All the air leaves John's chest, because he's not ready yet, not nearly drunk enough to dance in front of everyone. He stutters helplessly. "Sherlock are you sure? I don't think-" 

But Sherlock has already turned away and started whisking them into the centre of the room, tugging John along by the hand. He ignores all the verbal protests and spins them around once in the middle, silencing the smaller man by placing his hands on his hips. The touch makes John feel just _slightly_ dizzy. 

“Sherlock,” He warns.

Sherlock smirks. "You can do this John, honestly." He leans forward and puts his mouth to John's ear, deliberately dropping his voice an octave. "You remember what I taught you…just follow me." 

The tone of Sherlock’s voice is so seductive it would normally make John gasp, but for once he doesn’t get the chance because at that moment the music gets louder, heavier, picking up in pace as it progresses into the chorus.

It’s like a switch has been flicked in the room. The lights have changed to green. It’s time to _go_.

Because just like that, as if on cue, everyone starts to move _properly_ around them. People fall into line; start swaying to a certain rhythm. Everyone is on the dance floor now, and the couples at the far ends swirl each other under their partner’s arms.

“John,”

Sherlock’s voice, soft and patient, resonates vaguely in John’s brain. But the words feel very far away, because right now he can do nothing other than simply watch, gasping slightly, as his mind is completely absorbed by the transformation. It’s amazing. Couples glide past him, pointing their toes and flicking their heads. It’s a struggle just to take it all in, and he's still trying, astonished, when the sight of a slightly worried Sherlock consumes his vision.

“Earth to John,” Sherlock has to shout a bit to be heard over the music. “Are you ok?”

“Me?” John snaps from his trance. He looks around. They are the only pair not dancing. “Yeah I’m fine, err, let’s-”

Relieved, Sherlock grins enthusiastically and takes John’s hand, bowing courtly before sliding his hand up John’s back and sweeping them away from the middle of the hall. He pulls them into time with everyone else, moving gracefully; his feet coordinating perfectly with John’s to make sure they’re in sync. John’s hand automatically finds Sherlock’s shoulder, dropping into the position they’ve practised.

“Oh my god,”

And all of a sudden they’re doing it, he marvels, looking down at his own feet in amazement. They’re actually dancing together with everyone else. _He’s_ doing it. He can’t believe-

But as he continues to move, his feet weaving and twirling across the floor, he realises it isn’t even that difficult, not as complex as he expected, because he already _knows_ most of the moves. They are the steps Sherlock’s been teaching him right from the very start. Has he been planning this all along? 

“Sherlock, this is incredible. I can do it, I can-”

But the words hardly leave his lips, because now he’s panting and grinning too, and the ability to speak evades him. He gives up and lets his fingers curl around Sherlock’s as they continue to drift across the dance floor. They move effortlessly, easily, twisting and striding around each other, always together as one unit, blending into the crowd, slipping past everyone else.

John has to keep reminding himself they’re even there.

As the song goes on they move across the hall in circles, sweeping loops, the lights dipping and whirling as the music echoes and bounces off the walls. The melody is all encompassing. It coordinates every moment, controls every action and gesture. _Everyone_ is dancing. 

The setting is almost unrecognisable from how it was only a few minutes ago. It’s now alive with movement. Roused with passion and emotion. Transformed entirely. It’s like a scene from a musical.

John only catches small glimpses of everything as he whizzes past it. Because it’s all moving so quickly, and with such _energy_ , that he doesn’t know if he can process it all. There’s red lipstick and long black eyelashes. Suit buttons that are straining to hold it together, dying to pop open. Sweat pearls along trimmed hairlines. Bows glide effortlessly across the strings of violins. Everything is movement. Smiles and teeth and sparkling eyes. _Motion_.

And then there’s Sherlock.

The man himself has never looked quite so dazzling. His curly black hair is dishevelled and shiny, flicking as he whips his head back and forth in time with the music. His white shirt is outrageously tight, with one more button than normal is undone at the top. And as for the rest of him, well, his sharp black suit fits him perfectly.

John grins. He's never seen Sherlock’s eyes sparkle this brightly. They’re a stunning blue, yet slightly darker than normal because of the light. His pupils are wide, his gaze never strays from John’s face, and his tongue keeps travelling suggestively across his lips. Has he ever looked so happy? So content with the world?

John’s confidence grows more and more as the minutes go by and he starts to surprise Sherlock by throwing in a few unusual moves, some playful tricks with his footwork. His hand is still resting on the detectives hip, the other is entwined with his fingers. It’s like there’s a current running through them. An electrical pulse drawing them together, bringing them in time. It’s just _right_.

The piano notes tinkle as the pair continue to soar and glide across the room, always in perfect rhythm, guided by Sherlock’s strong hand, until the music gradually slows. The pace drops off as the orchestra soften their strokes, quietening the melody and winding everything and everyone down.

Neither of them really know how it happened, but somehow Sherlock and John find themselves gliding into the centre, to where the light is at its strongest and the most eyes will be watching. It’s all instinct and intuition as they explore the new space and move around each other slowly; feet stepping elegantly alongside each other. Their faces so close that their lips are almost touching; never looking anywhere but directly into each other’s eyes.

Slowly the other couples start to stand back, leaving the dance floor.

But Sherlock and John are still prowling around each other, smiling. Spinning. Twisting. And suddenly they find the entire attention of the room is on them. Everyone else has stopped dancing and is now watching, waiting, holding their breath.

The music drops to a flirtatious pace, the final verse, and John smiles graciously as Sherlock holds up his hand and twists him under his arm. They encircle each other slowly, moving closer and closer until they find themselves pressed up against each other, the music comes to its climax and-

John feels himself being tilted backwards. Sherlock’s strong arms supporting him and lowering him towards the ground. It’s all happening so fast, so quickly, that it takes him a moment to realise he’s actually about to be dip kissed.

The song finishes. Everything goes silent and Sherlock halts suddenly, his whole body freezing in John’s arms. Panic flashes momentarily in his eyes. His confidence falters. Their lips are only inches apart.

John nods, breathless.

_Go on. You can do it._

Sherlock’s nervous eyes bore into his, and the entire room remains silent for a few long moments until someone somewhere starts clapping and just like that the peace is broken as the crowd explode into applause, an overwhelming ovation. People nod and clink their drinks. Whoop and cheer.

But neither of them notice, because at that very moment Sherlock finally musters the courage to move forward and close the gap between them. Their eyes shut instinctively as he presses their lips together, softly, gently. For the first time. It's like connecting the final wire. Solidifying their relationship, whatever it is, to something _real_. Something unbreakable.

The clapping gets even louder.

 

 

***

 

 

“So, what was it you wanted to ask me?” John asks, as they shrug on their coats outside the cloakroom. He smiles as yet another person passes and gives him a hearty pat on the back. For the rest of the evening, they have not had a chance to speak for people have been so busy coming over and singing their praises.  

“Oh,” Sherlock pulls his black Belstaff coat over his shoulders and turns the collar up, ready to step out into the night. “That doesn’t matter anymore. I just wanted to ask if I could kiss you, but we’ve done that now.”  

"Oh." John beams. He’s not sure he’s ever felt this happy.  _This_ proud to be slipping his hand into the world’s only consulting detective’s palm. Because no matter what happens now, he’ll always have this; these past few years, and specifically this evening, to cherish and in his memory forever.

He won’t forget it. Because this is exactly how it should be. How it was always _meant_ to be. The two of them together, arm in arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See! I told you I'd write something happy soon. Did you like it? I really hope so, because I worked very hard and was a lot more descriptive than I tend to normally be, so I hope that paid off and you could really visualise everything. Don't be afraid to tell me what you thought! Thanks must go to Kate (bigblueboxat221b) who helped me edit, and everyone on Instagram who got as excited about this idea as me and urged me to do it.


	9. You never looked lovelier than when you were smiling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie finds some old photos of Sherlock and John in the attic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello, it's been a while.  
> I'm still here though, and I do very much hope you enjoy this somewhat bittersweet story.  
> It was only supposed to be two photos originally, but as you can see I got a bit carried away, sorry about that.  
> This works a LOT better if you read it on the computer instead of a phone, as I could not control the shape or size of the images which was irritating, and editing them all separately would've been far too time consuming, but hopefully you can look past that for me and lose yourself in the story anyhow.  
> Merry Christmas!

Rosie sits crossed legged in the narrow attic of 221B Baker Street and allows herself to take a shallow breath.

It’s the dust more than anything, the place hasn’t been cleaned since well before Mrs Hudson died - the boys never bothered to do it, and to be perfectly honest she probably didn’t either - so now the stuff lays about an inch thick on every surface, a sort of grey ash. It covers the Victorian beams and tattered old boxes that surround her. She sniffs and rubs her eyes. Dust allergies probably. But of course, it’s not just that.

Today is clearing out day.

The day she _really_ says goodbye.

Sherlock’s funeral was a fair few months ago now so she can’t really delay the process much longer. Sorting out the flat is just her responsibility, John died a year or so before. 96, he was, and Sherlock made it into his 90’s too. They both did well, led brilliant lives. Their deaths were both quiet, painless ones. She couldn’t have asked for it any other way really.

Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt, though.

She rubs her eyes once more and tries to focus on the task in hand: clearing out the attic and searching through their old belongings; deciding what will be kept, and what will be thrown away.

She’s thinking she might sell the flat. It's the logical thing to do and it would earn enough her money to stop her worrying about it. John would have wanted that, probably. He left her everything in his will. But she can’t decide if Sherlock would have minded, he did make some vague comment about her living here, but she could never do that. Not at the moment at least. Too painful. Too many memories.

There was talk from Sherlock’s still surprisingly large fanbase that the flat could be turned into a museum, but she’s too not sure about that either. They have enough people trying to snoop about their personal lives as it is, and she’s not ready. Not yet anyway. Maybe after everything’s had time to settle. One day far in the future, she thinks, maybe.

She pulls the nearest box towards her and coughs as a large cloud of dust rises up in her face in retaliation. She smears away the grit from the corner and sees that it’s labelled simply as ‘ _Sherlock 2010-_ ’ in black marker pen. John’s writing, obviously. He would be the only one to bother storing photographs. She opens it up.

The first thing she spots is a slightly crinkled piece of yellowing paper covered in scrawling black writing. Underneath that is a small collection of photo albums, along with some notebooks and newspaper clippings. She decides to start with the note first.

 _‘I know there must be hundreds of photos of us on the internet, in the press or on my blog, but I thought I’d make a physical collection of some of the private ones I’ve taken, or just the ones that are my favourite. Who knows, maybe one day we might actually stop and have time to look at them. Yours, John._ ’

She gulps. It was always going to be hard, but this? A sinking feeling spreads slowly through her chest. The loss is still so raw. She feels such sadness, but at the same time, a kind of warmth is rousing there too. What beautiful, caring men her parents were, with such big hearts. How dear they were to each other.

She places the note carefully to one side and gets started on the photos. First, there are ones of London, dated now, showing their age; landmarks and buildings like the Shard are missing.

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/bb7fhbW)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/iaJdlYu)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/5d8a32L)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/khRg3k0)

They’re not particularly well framed, but there is a sort of style to them. They’re so generic that they could belong to anyone, but Rosie knows that it was John who took them. John’s hands on the camera, his fingers curling around the edges. Perhaps they were taken when he first came to live in London, or maybe snapped between cases; travelling on the bus or strolling through a park. She flicks to the next one. 

 [](https://imgur.com/b6GBenh)

 

 [](https://imgur.com/4r1T8HT)

 

[](https://imgur.com/iRUnkRO) 

 

 [](https://imgur.com/9I96djR)

 

[](https://imgur.com/Dn32qxh) 

Well, it's clear that at this point John must have met Sherlock, because soon that’s all there is. Some of the photos have been transferred and edited on the computer. She stifles a giggle, it almost looks like Sherlock is modelling in a few of them, which perhaps he was, for the blog. The detective would never have admitted it, but he was such a poser. Rosie smiles and flicks further, getting excited now, the photos moving quickly through her hands.

[ ](https://imgur.com/HfTWlVT)

[](https://imgur.com/IZsMbDp) 

 

[](https://imgur.com/Sv3Diu5) 

 The photos are starting to get more personal. Evidently the hits counter on John’s blog was rising at this point, hence the publicity photos. There are the first ones with Sherlock and his iconic deerstalker. It's proof of the passing of time: they are now an established pair of crime solvers. The next few photos seemed to be stamped with the trademarks of various newspapers. 

[ ](https://imgur.com/60v22j9)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/AZg4EWh)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/rrVX9Nn)

[ ](https://imgur.com/unfhprJ)

She can see them getting closer and closer, their relationship blooming by the photo, their smiles getting brighter. A tear slips out of the corner of her eye.

“Oh, my boys.” She whispers.

The photos come to an end and she opens the first proper album. Here the images seem to move inside, to their private lives, to the very flat she’s still sat in.

[ ](https://imgur.com/Pn01Dk6)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/xfn1wg5)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/Tgz1zj3)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/cXXSMXf)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/uTnFZel)

Here the photos start to get funnier, the pair clearly knew each other well now. There’s some she recognises from John’s blog, from when they visited Dartmoor for the Hound of the Baskerville case.

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/AgOxxGQ)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/fqhxqRW)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/MpCWqym)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/6vDvqlt)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/49QuC5U)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/ZwcSdds)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/KI70rKo)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/JYLvI0J)

The photos seem to end rather abruptly there, and the rest of the album is usually empty. There was so much more space, yet it wasn't filled. She tilts her head to the side, confused, desperate for more. About what time would that have been? 2011 now...2012? - She picks up the next album - that was the period where Sherlock supposedly 'died' so it makes sense that there wouldn't be anything else until late 2014 but...

Her heart jumps suddenly. While thinking she's flipped the next album over in her hands and unwittingly read the title. Her heart thuds. ' _Rosamund Mary Watson_ ’ is written on the front in John’s neat handwriting. _Oh_. 

It hadn’t actually occurred to her that there might be photos of  _ her  _ up here. She’d seen her baby photos a few times briefly before, but only ever on the computer. The first time was when John was hurriedly trying to find her a picture of her mother, Mary, to take into school for Mothers day. Of course, she’d known about her then, aged eight, though she didn't really understand. When the time was right, Daddy had taken her aside and told her very gently that Mummy had left them to go to heaven when she was young, and that’s why she had two daddies now instead, who love each other very much, although he did say he loved Mummy very much too when she was alive, and that he still misses her.

Rosie remembers smiling and saying: "Ok daddy", while chewing on a bit of her hair, and that was that.

After that conversation they never spoke of her often, although when they did their words were warm and gentle, yet always careful since it normally upset them both, especially John. Occasionally, when Rosie was cheeky, Sherlock would say: “Well I’m not sure what your Mummy would have thought about that,” and pat Rosie on the head, and John would just smile sadly, his eyes suddenly far away in the distance. She remembers that look well. 

Of course, now an adult woman she knows about the tragic circumstances of her mother’s death, and all the turmoil that came afterwards. Growing up, she'd read conspiracy theories about it online, aged 15, before finally plucking up the courage to ask Sherlock for the real details.

John was out, so Papa Sherlock let her sit in his chair beside the fire and made her a cup of tea. They sat in silence for a while, before Sherlock started slowly, explaining all about Moriarty, and the Reichenbach case that meant he had to leave John for two years. Then he explained how John was with Mary when he came back, so he could never say anything, despite knowing then that he loved him. He never spoke badly of her though, and moved onto the wedding, telling Rosie all about her mother Mary; how she was funny and witty and the three of them were great friends for a time. T hen the detective's voice went grievously quiet as he explained the circumstances of her death, and how sometimes, he still blames himself and worries that John does too. 

When she’d finally swallowed her tears and steadied her shaking voice; Rosie had told him not to be so ridiculous. She said that it was not his fault and she was proud her mother. Proud that she was so brave. 

“Brave,” Sherlock had repeated, his mind deep in thought. “That is definitely the way to describe her." he paused, "I could never be half the person she was.” 

Rosie blinks at the memory, the vision of their conversation so real she can still hear the crackle of the fire in her ears. It is a devastating shame that she never knew her, but she’d like to think that if she was watching now; she’d be happy with the way things turned out. It was for the best that Sherlock and Dad finally got together, and that they were happy and in love, because in turn, Rosie’s childhood was a blissfully happy one too. Surely, her mother would have been glad of that. 

Rosie takes a deep breath and opens the album. First, there are lots of wedding photos.

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/uLdFqoW)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/llQSmap)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/fZ6NgDb)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/Gybti5P)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/Lmylcn8)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/JxypXjN)

 Rosie gasps at the first photos of her mother. She's even more beautiful than she remembers, and she studies each photo carefully, eyes scanning over every single detail before moving on. And then, as she turns the page, come the photos of her: 

[ ](https://imgur.com/KF2WSjc)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/0NClecY)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/h94hVF3)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/CPhLYxb)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/XAc93ps)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/Jv4fJvn)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/RVzRDmH)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/4CmNqmA)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/0FPcsNn)

Rosie swallows. Her mother was stunning. A beautiful woman with floaty golden hair that is much like her own, and then suddenly, as she turns the page, she’s gone. 

There are no more photographs. No more pictures of anyone. Rosie feels a panic rising in her chest and flicks to the end of the album to make sure. She places it down on her lap. 

The silence hums around her, heavy and uncertain. She flicks back to the photo of Mary and Sherlock smiling in Speedy's and checks the date scribbled at the bottom. _2017._  

Oh. 

The truth dawns on her. 

That must have been when it happened, shortly after these photographs were taken. She shudders. That's why the rest of the album is once again empty, like before in 2012, John must have stopped because it was at this moment his world came crashing down around him. 2017 is the year his wife, and her mother, died. 

She places the album back in the box, trembling slightly. Once again, the attic dust makes her eyes water. 

“That can’t be it.” She mumbles. 

These photos were for Sherlock, weren’t they? To make him happy. She roots around in the box again, searching under the newspaper clippings and stray pieces of paper, and her heart leaps as thankfully, to her delight she finds another album. The final album. It’s newer, not quite as tattered as the rest of them. The title simply reads:

‘ _To us. Our Family_.  _2018-_ ’ 

Rosie feels her throat start to go dry. She turns to the first page.

[ ](https://imgur.com/JEzMRep)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/orqHaJh)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/mxYaBjk)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/vGVhP4p)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/2vKC6jQ)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/yJc4lU3)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/xhGRc8c)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/pAywd9I)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/NdMXO89)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/zhPLORl)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/DayGW6g)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/ClXPCol)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/ckrbvRc)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/doR4Y7s)

[ ](https://imgur.com/eBlYCYH)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/r1uUfqj)

_'Holiday photos 2019-'_

[ ](https://imgur.com/WhVmHKn)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/XnwxNeI)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/uwdVInL)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/Vppk2NV)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/UlHMLdt)

Rosie turns the final page and clasps the book shut. She's too shocked for words. To think that these were always up here and they never sat down as a family and looked at them. These wonderful photos that show a beautiful story of friendship and then eventually love. And oh, how she loved them. 

She wipes away a tear that has slipped down her cheek. Oh, how she misses them and the exciting world they belonged too. But how happy they all were, and how grateful she is they were her parents and she got to be a part of their lives. 

She sits back and looks for another album but as expected there isn't one. Perhaps after that year John stopped taking photos, or maybe he simply forgot, or they're all on a computer somewhere. She’ll never know. At this point she’s pretty sure there’s nothing left to see but she checks the bottom of the box anyway, and, face down at the bottom, are two photos she’s not sure she’s looked at, with some writing scrawled on the back of them. 

‘ _ And finally, my favourite two photos of you. You never looked lovelier than when you were smiling, Sherlock. Thank you, for everything. You made my life an adventure, and I don’t regret a thing. I love you, now and always. John. _ ’

[ ](https://imgur.com/usQpcCk)

 

[ ](https://imgur.com/3r7zu2K)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own the copyright to any of the photos used in the piece above, EXCEPT the first five of London, which were taken by my parents when I was a child. All credit must go to the respective artists and editors of these photos, and I have not knowingly removed any watermarks.  
> Thanks to everyone on Facebook who spurred me on with this fic and provided a lot of the photos. I do hope it was worth the wait.  
> Please feel free to contact me on here or on social media at any time for a good old chat - I'm always grateful for the attention to be honest XD

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments are always very welcome♡


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